


promises, promises

by astrolesbian



Series: inked amis [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Tattoos, i don't know how to fill in these things, tattooed!grantaire, the basic summary is : grantaire: [gets a tattoo] enjolras: this is fine.png
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-23
Updated: 2015-06-23
Packaged: 2018-04-05 20:48:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4194399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astrolesbian/pseuds/astrolesbian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Why did you get a tattoo, if they hurt so much?”</p><p>“Because it’s art for your body,” Grantaire answers, forehead pressed into the table. “And it’s—” His fingers reach out to brush along the line of the heart monitor tattooed on his wrist. “It’s a way to make a promise.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	promises, promises

**Author's Note:**

> this was all inspired by [this lovely piece of art](https://twitter.com/jehantxt/status/608096286508728320) by @jehantxt on twitter. i'm pretty sure cam did not expect this au to get so long and characterized when we first talked about it because in the beginning it was basically "enjolras REALLY LIKES tattoos. and then it turns out R has like six. oh no." 
> 
> so, enjoy this, cam. this is for you, and your beautiful art.

_Okay,_ Grantaire tells himself, _don’t turn the corner, don’t turn the corner._

He doesn’t, and he doesn’t know whether if he should be proud about that or if he should be even angrier with himself because he has to stand out here pacing on the street just so he won’t walk a block and buy a drink. Shouldn’t he be over this by now? It’s been a whole fucking month, and here he still is, all shaky hands and pacing and—

_Fucking pathetic,_ something whispers—if Grantaire were in the slightest way _poetic_ he’d call it an inner demon or some such shit—but, well. That’s Jehan’s thing. 

He keeps walking back and forth on the street, blocks and blocks from his apartment—he doesn’t know where he is, exactly, just that there’s an open bar a block down and he went down that block and turned around and came back and—and. And, and, and. And now he just really, _really_ wants to walk over and walk in and ask for a fucking drink—and while he tries his hardest to _not_ do that, he’s trying to distract himself from the way his hands are shaking, and the way his breath sticks in his throat. Fuck, he just—he can’t fucking do this, there’s too much, fuck, fuck, _fuck_ —

He pulls out his phone and looks at it as he walks, and it’s like a game of fucking roulette; which friend can he bother with his utter uselessness this time? What can he even say? _Hey, it’s R, I can’t stop wanting a fucking drink,_ is that it? 

“Are you all right?” a voice says, coming from the doorway of a little shop, one of the ones he _has_ noticed before, walking by, driving by, whatever; because it’s a gorgeous place, with a carefully hand-painted sign. _Tattoo_ _Flow,_ it says, in a dozen different colors with designs swirling in and out of the letters. He looks away from the sign, phone still clutched in his sweaty fist, and looks up at a girl who is watching him, her eyes wide and dark and concerned, but it doesn’t feel like pity, which loosens his chest a bit. 

“Depends on your definition,” Grantaire says, “because by mine, about as all right as always; by someone else’s, my friend Courfeyrac’s, for example, most definitely _not_ all right.”

She tucks her dark hair behind her ear, shifts from one foot to another, and bites her lip. “Would you like to come in? I was about to close for lunch, but I’d love an excuse to not meet Mum.”

“Why not?” Grantaire asks, and then wants to hit himself, because he might be a fucking mess but he can’t add _nosey_ on top of that, no one would associate with him anymore.

She just smiles absently, though, and reaches for the door. “She always insists on using the wrong pronouns, is all. Dad’s much better about it. Even _Gran_ is better. We’ve been better lately, me and Mum, I mean, but—” She cuts herself off, looking mortified. “I’m sorry. I don’t—I’m such a blabbermouth, I shouldn’t trouble you with that when you’re already—”

“Fucked up?” Grantaire suggests, and tries to smile at her, though he’s certain it isn’t as reassuring as he means for it to be. “I don’t mind. And I’d love to keep you from an afternoon of being misgendered, at least that way I’ll be doing something vaguely useful, and Enjolras won’t yell at me if I miss the meeting like I did last week.”

“Meeting?” She ushers him in, and then looks at his hands in concern. He realizes they’re still shaking, and balls them up to make it stop. 

“Social justice kind of thing,” Grantaire explains. “My roommates dragged me there, ages ago, and then I met what might perhaps be a god incarnate, and decided on the spot to make it my life’s mission to be as much of a bother to him as possible, and here we are today.” He eyes her. “What _are_ the right pronouns, anyway? I’m told that’s the appropriate question.” He hopes he hasn't been misgendering her, that's a shit thing to do; even if he is a shit person he does do his best to not do shit things, at least when they affect other people. 

“She,” the girl tells him, and he nods. “A god incarnate?” 

“I’ve got a picture,” Grantaire says, instead of waxing poetic for a few minutes, as he has been known to do, and shows her. She whistles, appreciatively. 

“Well, as missions go, you couldn’t have picked a better-looking one,” she says. “I guess that’s shallow of me, but it’s not as though I know him, so I can’t speak for his personality.”

“A few months ago I would have said he hasn’t got much of one,” Grantaire says, and sighs, “but now I know that he _does,_ which just makes it all worse.”

The girl pats his back. Grantaire thinks that complaining about his romantic life (or lack of one) is just about as pathetic as pacing up and down the street so he won’t buy a drink, and decides to change the subject.

“What’s your name?” he asks her, and she smiles and pulls out a chair for him at the table in the corner. 

“Floréal,” she says, “and you?”

“Grantaire,” he says. “My friends call me R.”

She laughs, and he grins back, pleased that she understood the pun. It’s not as though people _don’t_ understand the pun, usually, but it’s always nice.

“Do you do the tattoos here?” he asks, and she nods. 

“Dropped out of art school,” she says. “And I needed something to fill my days.”

He studies the delicate pattern of roses on her shoulders, and smiles; they suit her. 

“I was in art school too, for a while,” he tells her, and she laughs.

“You see! We have something in common already.” 

He laughs. “I guess you could say that.” 

“Why were you out there in the street?” she asks, and the air freezes around them, and Grantaire thinks about not telling her, about just letting it go with a laugh, but finds himself opening his mouth—if it’s because he wants sympathy or because he wants pity or because he wants to talk, to _someone,_ he doesn’t know.

“Trying not to go buy a drink,” he says, and her eyes soften, but they don’t hold any pity, and, and. That’s. That’s not the usual response.

“Here,” she says, and to his surprise, digs around in a drawer before pulling out a bag of caramels. “I know it’s not nearly the same, but sometimes having something to chew on helped me when I stopped smoking.”

It isn’t the same, but she’s sweet, and Grantaire does genuinely appreciate the gesture, so he pops a caramel in his mouth, and smiles weakly at her, and she smiles back, and the conversation turns to tattoos again, and she hands him half of her sandwich, and she tells him a story about some customer and then another, and they laugh so much that the craving for a drink turns into something a lot less crippling.

“Here,” she says, at the end of her lunch hour, when they both remember that they have other places to be. “Take this.”

She writes a phone number on his palm, her handwriting elegant, and before he can pull away, she moves to his wrist, and draws a few quick lines that form into the beating of a heartbeat on a monitor. He stares at it.

“I know it’s not much,” she says, and sounds nervous. “But maybe it could remind you.”

“Remind me what?” he asks; it’s not like he’s done much of anything with his life, so far.

“That you made it,” she says. He looks down at it again, the blip of a heartbeat on his wrist. And he doesn’t know what to say, to that. The only thing he can think is that maybe he did make it, but it doesn’t seem to have done anyone much good. But he can’t tell her that, not when she’s smiling at him, hopeful and nervous.

“Thank you,” he says instead, and turns, and goes.

And maybe it’s not much, but he finds himself tracing the worn line all afternoon, whenever it gets to be a lot, and thinking of laughing with her, and thinking of the rest of his friends, and thinking of his heartbeat, beating strong, after all this time.

Just thinking.

He goes back to Floréal’s shop the next day, just about when he remembers her lunch hour starts. She smiles at him, and then notices the place on his wrist where he’s reapplied the ink, making the line stand out strong again against the skin of his wrist. 

“How was the meeting?” she asks, and he shrugs. 

“Didn’t register much of it,” he says. “Still had the shakes.” 

She makes a sympathetic noise in the back of her throat. “Was it all right, though?”

“Not really,” he says, and leaves it at that. She seems to understand, and tosses him a paper bag. 

“I thought you might come today,” she says, by way of explanation. “Didn’t want to have to share my lunch again.” She’s smiling, though, so he takes the bag with a nod, and sits down next to her.

“Any interesting customers today?” he asks, and she grins.

“Oh, you won’t believe it,” she says. “This man comes in, ridiculously high—I don’t know _what_ he took, but it wasn’t legal—sits down, looks me dead in the eyes, and asks me to draw Pac-Man on his ass. . .”

It becomes routine.

Two things, really, settling themselves quite nicely into Grantaire’s life: lunch with Floréal in her little shop, and redrawing the line on his wrist, morning after morning after morning, until he’s gotten used to seeing it there, until he thinks it would feel odd for it to be gone. 

Until he finds himself tracing it whenever he passes a liquor store, hard enough to feel his heat beating through his skin.

He comes in early the next day, twenty minutes before she closes for lunch, and sits down in the chair. The heartbeat line is still drawn, slightly smudged, on his wrist. 

She looks at him, and he looks back. He hopes that whatever he is trying to say (because he doesn’t really know himself, yet) is conveyed in that look, as their eyes meet over his wrist. 

“It’s going to hurt,” she says, neutrally, reaching for the tattoo gun. “Are you sure, R?”

He thinks about how she’d said _you made it._

“I’m sure,” he tells her.

* * *

 

“Holy shit!” Courfeyrac yells, loudly enough that he makes Enjolras forget about what he’s saying, and look around for the fire or other disaster that could have caused the shout. All he finds, however, is Courfeyrac holding up Grantaire’s wrist and staring at it, and Grantaire looking just as nonplussed as Enjolras feels himself.

“I didn’t do anything,” Grantaire says, hands stretched above his head the moment their eyes meet.

“Yes you _did,_ ” Courfeyrac says. “R, this is an _actual tattoo—”_

“Wait, it’s _real_?” Bahorel says, and then the Enjolras loses control of the meeting completely.

“—I can’t believe this—”

“—I thought it was just a drawing—”

“—How long have you had this?—”

“Um,” Grantaire says. “I dunno, like a few months? Ever since I—you know. Got sober.” He coughs. “I thought you all knew, it wasn’t like I was hiding it—”

“I though you were just drawing it on every morning,” Joly says, and Grantaire shrugs.

“Reasonable assumption. So, yeah, that one’s a couple months old, and then the other one was like a week ago, but—”

“The _other one?”_ Courfeyrac says. Loudly. And excitedly. Chaos ensues once more.

“—of all the people, I never would have picked you—”

“—don’t be ridiculous, R looks excellent with a tattoo—”

“— _everyone_ looks excellent with tattoos—”

“—unless they’re the embarrassing ones—”

“—R, what’s the second one? Is it embarrassing?”

Grantaire just sighs, and puts his head in his hands. “If I show you, will you stop badgering me?”

“Possibly,” Courfeyrac says, and Grantaire looks down as if contemplating something, and then sighs again and pulls his T-shirt off over his head.

Enjolras suddenly feels like he should be somewhere else, because it’s very hot in the room, and it’s very, well. 

“There it is,” Grantaire is saying, and he points to a spot on his ribs where there’s a small tattoo of letters in what looks like a typewriter font. Enjolras wonders what it says, but then realizes that would mean getting closer, and that. That’s not an option.

“Semper ubi sub ubi,” Jehan reads, and then wrinkles their nose. “What’s it mean?”

“That’s for me to know, and you to never find out,” Grantaire says, and smiles brightly at them, and Enjolras wants to—he doesn’t know. He has to leave. It’s very warm in here, and no one else seems to notice. 

“Can we get back to the _meeting,_ ” he says, but it comes out weaker than he wanted it to, because he’s still staring at Grantaire’s ribs, watching as the tattoo moves when he shifts. (Has he always had abs? Enjolras doesn’t remember him having abs like that. Or shoulders like that.)

“Not yet,” Courfeyrac says, waving him off like a fly. He would be insulted, but he’s not paying much attention, because everyone is badgering Grantaire with questions again and no one seems to notice the way Enjolras’ eyes are fixed on Grantaire’s shoulders.

“Where’d you get it?”

“Who gave it to you?”

“Did it hurt?”

“How much did it hurt?”

“Are you getting more?”

“You’re like fucking vultures,” Grantaire mutters. “I got it from a friend of mine named Floréal, she owns a tattoo shop, I eat lunch with her, it didn’t hurt that much once I remembered to breathe, yes, I’m getting another one. On my back. A tree.”

“A tree,” someone repeats. Or several someones at once, maybe. Enjolras doesn’t know. He wishes Grantaire would think to put his shirt back on. 

“Yes? A tree?”

“How much was it?” This question comes from Combeferre, which is a surprise.

“Dunno exactly,” Grantaire says, and shrugs. This does—well, _interesting_ things to the muscles in his shoulders, and Enjolras looks away and clears his throat, trying to get a grip. “I made Flo take fifty for each one, but I have no clue if that’s the actual price or not. She might give you a discount because you’re a friend.”

“Wait,” Courfeyrac blurts. “Ferre—”

Combeferre just hums thoughtfully. “Do you think she’d do the planets on my arm?”

Courfeyrac looks, quite suddenly, surprised, delighted, and terrified, all at once. Enjolras sort of sympathizes.

“That’s the nerdiest tattoo I’ve ever heard of, she’d love to do it,” Grantaire says, and finally pulls his shirt back on. “She loves Star Trek, you two will have lots to talk about.”

Combeferre looks pleased. Courfeyrac looks back and forth between them, and the clears his throat, looking down at his hands.

“Good,” Combeferre says. “Can we do it after the meeting?”

“I’ll text her and see if she can fit you,” Grantaire says, and Courfeyrac sends Enjolras a look of panic. It is extremely overdramatic, and Enjolras definitely sympathizes. There’s something wrong with him.

“Can we get back to it _now_?” Enjolras says again, with some more bite in his voice than before. Grantaire salutes him.

“Aye, captain,” he says, in a pirate voice. Joly giggles. Enjolras stares at the ceiling for a minute, and counts to ten. (Usually, this is because he is annoyed; lately, it is because Grantaire is attractive.)

“Right,” he says, finally, trying very hard not to think about what a tree would look like stretching out in ink over Grantaire’s back, and goes on with the meeting.

“A tattoo,” Courfeyrac says.

“Mm,” Enjolras says.

“He’s getting a _tattoo,”_ Courfeyrac says.

“I don’t like where you’re going with this,” Enjolras says. 

“He’s going to roll up his sleeves,” Courfeyrac says. “All the time. Daily. And I am going to die.”

“Mm,” Enjolras mumbles, looking for his glasses. He was so sure he threw them on his bed this morning but now—

Courfeyrac sighs and flops sideways onto Enjolras’ bed. “Please be sure to give me a decent funeral. And write _died because Combeferre was too gorgeous for his poor pansexual heart to handle_ on my gravestone.”

“That’s a bit much for a gravestone,” Enjolras says, locating his glasses and sliding them on top of his head.

“That’s not the _point,”_ Courfeyrac says. “The point is that I’m going to die. And so are you, by the looks of it.”

“I,” Enjolras says. “What.”

“That tattoo is on his _ribs,_ ” Courfeyrac says. Much too victoriously. 

“I,” Enjolras says again, much more weakly than before, because now he’s _thinking_ about it, and screw Courfeyrac and his big, happy smile. 

“I knew it!” Courfeyrac shouts. “How long have you had a crush on R?”

“That’s—it’s none of your—I’ve never had a crush on anyone,” Enjolras says. “Ever.”

“You’re nervous, you only quote Parks and Rec when you’re nervous,” Courfeyrac says, punching the air in victory. “You have a crush on R.”

Enjolras looks at the ceiling and counts to ten. He forgets, however, about the glasses on top of his head. Courfeyrac catches them before they fall off and break (again). 

“I do not have a crush on R,” Enjolras says, finally, deciding not to address the Parks and Recreation thing just yet. 

“Sure,” Courfeyrac says. “Right. Of course. You just want to make out with him, or maybe lick his tattoos, the two of you bickering into old age—”

“Shut _up,_ Courf,” Enjolras mutters, and sets about looking for the books he needs to return to the library.

“They’re on the kitchen table, Ferre was reading one of them yesterday,” Courfeyrac says, grabbing onto Enjolras’ shoulders and sitting him down on his desk chair. “Stop avoiding the question.”

“You underestimate my ability to avoid things,” Enjolras tells him, feeling moody and irritable at having to talk about this. “It doesn’t matter, it’ll fade, it always does—”

Courfeyrac looks slightly scandalized. “What do you mean it _always does_?”

_Fuck,_ Enjolras thinks. Courfeyrac shakes his shoulders very slightly. 

“Um,” Enjolras says, for lack of actual words. 

“ _Enjolras,”_ Courfeyrac says, and shakes him just a bit harder.

“Remember when Bahorel set up the Beard Dare?” Enjolras says, and Courfeyrac groans.

“That was _months_ ago! _Months!_ ” He shakes Enjolras again, as if the point might not have gone through. “Oh my god, is that why you were getting so distracted during meetings?"

The Beard Dare was not something Enjolras was actually a part of, given that he was unable to actually grow a beard, even with T. But as far as he could tell, the rules had been thus: whoever’s beard was the longest by the end of the month won. And Grantaire, who usually just had a five-o-clock shadow, suddenly had a full beard, and Enjolras was trying very, very hard to stop imagining how it would feel on his neck. (It was a trying time.)

“He looked really good with that beard,” Enjolras mutters, then realizes that Courfeyrac is still here, and that Courfeyrac is now grinning with victory, and he sighs.

“Shut up,” he tells him. “Just let me deal with it.”

“I’m going to assume _dealing with it_ means suffering in silence and never saying a word to anyone about how much you like R, much less R himself,” Courfeyrac says, “so no, as a friend, I can’t let you _deal with it._ I’m going to actually _help._ ”

“Oh, good,” Enjolras says. “Then I can help you, too, by telling Combeferre how much you want to—”

“Don’t you _dare,”_ Courfeyrac says.

Enjolras raises an eyebrow.

“Shit,” Courfeyrac says. “Okay. I see your point.” He sighs, and flops down on Enjolras’ bed. “What did we do to deserve this,” he says, and it’s not exactly phrased as a question, so Enjolras just looks at the ceiling again.

He has a feeling that he and Courfeyrac are going to have this discussion many, many more times, with varying degrees of coherency, in the next few months.

“So you’re thinking planets,” Floréal confirms, and Combeferre nods. 

“Do you just want, you know, the planets, all in a line?” she adds. “Because I could connect them somehow, make them into something a little more cohesive; it’d definitely look aesthetically better, but it all depends on what you want, because I’m not the one who has to deal with it on my arm until I die, that’s you.”

“You make a good point,” Combeferre says. Grantaire snorts.

“Don’t _scare_ him, Flo.”

“From what I’ve heard about this one, I couldn’t scare him if I tried,” Floréal says, and pushes the hair off of her face, twisting it into a bun at the nape of her neck. 

“You told her about us?” Combeferre is surprised, though Grantaire doesn’t know why he would be. It’s not as though he has scores of other friends to talk about.

“All kinds of things,” Floréal says. “I’m going to try to make it to the next meeting on Thursday. Now that I’ve met you, I want to meet _everyone._ R kept bugging me about coming, but I just—” She shrugs. “I didn’t want to risk meeting all his friends and not getting along with them, or something.” 

“I think you and Courfeyrac will definitely get along,” Combeferre says, and there’s a smile in his face that Grantaire can hear more than he can see. “And Cosette, of course, she loves everyone, and Jehan will like your roses.”

“They’ll be disappointed to find,” Flo snorts, “that I’m shit at keeping real ones.” She considers his arm, turning it over. “Do you want the planets on the inside, or the outside?”

“Both?” Combeferre sounds like even he doesn’t quite know what that means.

Floréal stares at him, for a moment, and then sighs out through her nose.

“Right,” she says, and turns to her sketchbook, scribbling furiously for a moment, before holding it out for his inspection. “Is that sufficient?”

“Oh,” Combeferre says. “Wow. That’s . . .”

“Excellent,” Grantaire says. “You’ve outdone yourself, Flo.”

She beams, a blush brightening her cheeks. Grantaire wants to draw her, suddenly, and it surprises him. He hasn’t wanted to draw anything, for a while. His hands were shaking, at first, and then . . .

“Mind if I borrow that while you—?” he says, and gestures toward her sketchbook. She nods, and hands it over, already focused on Combeferre’s arm, ready to get started, explaining to him about how she’ll have to shave the hair on his arm and that he’ll have to take care of it properly and she won’t be there to bug him about it like she was with Grantaire, and Grantaire himself opens her book to a clean page and, slowly, Floréal takes up residence there, laughing with a crown of daisies in her hair and her roses on her shoulders, and the picture looks so goddamn hopeful that Grantaire still almost gets the urge to tear it out and throw it away, because it’s not a feeling he’s used to, not anymore.

He stares at it, after. This is not like the piles in his room of crumpled paper, the ones he tried to make into something beautiful but couldn't, before. Back when his hands shook too hard to hold a pencil, much less a paintbrush. Unbidden, his mind dredges up a picture of Bob Ross, and summer—of a voice saying  _your world can be anything you like._ Of being twelve years old and hearing that voice in the art room at school, and aching to draw more than he thinks he's ever ached for alcohol. Of drawing superheroes and new sneakers and a nice apartment into the margins of his notebooks— _your world can be anything you like._

It's been a long time, he thinks, since the pounding in his head has eased enough to  _want_ again like this. Not for things like new sneakers or an apartment that's not a shithole. For the feeling of picking up a pencil and having something good come from it. And here is Flo, adjusting the roses in her hair. He adds the freckles on the tip of her nose, and feels the side of his mouth move into what feels like a smile.

“R,” Floréal says, and he looks up to see that she’s already done half of Combeferre’s arm, which is _ridiculous,_ he didn’t even make a _sound,_ is he some kind of _robot?_ Does he not feel _pain?_

“You all right?” she asks. "You haven't said a word."

He looks back at the picture of her, and back up.

“I’ve got a new idea for the tree,” he says. “I want some buds on it.”

“Flowers?”

“No,” he says. And thinks about being twelve in the summer, and this picture, and how his hands haven’t shook for a week. “Just buds.”

He has a feeling Jehan would see symbolism in it, but Jehan isn’t here.

Courfeyrac is holding Combeferre’s arm and turning it over and over when Enjolras gets home from the grocery, and he resigns himself, then and there, to Courfeyrac lying down on his bed later and crying, or complaining, or something.

“I bought ice cream,” he tells them, and Courfeyrac perks up, but does not rush over to grab it and vanish somewhere with it, which is. Disconcerting, to say the least.

“Come look at Ferre’s tattoo,” Courfeyrac says, and Enjolras sighs through his nose and puts the bags down in the kitchen.

“It’s not much,” Combeferre says, his free hand coming up to rest self-consciously on the back of his neck. “Just the planets.” He is looking at Courfeyrac, and Courfeyrac is not looking back at him, but Combeferre has a small smile on his face, embarrassed and pleased at the fuss all at once.

“It’s _amazing,_ ” Courfeyrac says. Enjolras eyes him, but he’s too busy tracing his fingers over Combeferre’s wrist to notice.

It is a good tattoo, though, the planets in carefully inked circles that stand out dark against the brown of his skin, with an illusion of rotation, like if you looked away, they would move. (It has a Harry Potter vibe. Enjolras thinks that Combeferre probably deeply appreciates that.)

“It’s still documentary night,” Combeferre says, then, distracting them both from the sun on the inside of his elbow. “Isn’t it?”

“Ooh, yes,” Courfeyrac says happily, and lets go of Combeferre’s wrist like he’s just realized he was still holding it. “I think we should watch the one about the elephant families.”

“That one makes you cry,” Enjolras points out.

Courfeyrac shrugs. “You bought ice cream.”

He then vanishes into the living room, most likely to find the elephant documentary, leaving Combeferre and Enjolras to put away the groceries.

“She’s going to come to a meeting,” Combeferre says, when Enjolras hands him a box of cereal. “R’s friend, I mean. Floréal.”

“Oh,” Enjolras says. “Really?”

Combeferre adjusts his glasses. “She wasn’t too excited at first, but she—she has good opinions, and R told her she should come.”

“ _Grantaire_ told her that?”

Combeferre gives him a look that he doesn’t completely understand, and Enjolras tries to pretend it doesn’t make his stomach feel ridiculous and fluttery to think about Grantaire telling other people that the Amis are something to be believed in.

“Yes,” Combeferre says, finally. “Apparently, he was convincing.”

Floréal comes to the meeting with Grantaire the next Thursday, takes one look at Éponine, and gets a look on her face like she’s having a religious experience. Grantaire has a vague sense of deja vu back to when he came to his first meeting with Joly and Bossuet, and saw Enjolras pacing and talking about the wage gap, except Éponine is sitting half asleep with her head on Cosette’s shoulder, as Cosette strokes her hair and talks to Courfeyrac about the recent episode of some Netflix drama they like. Same difference, R supposes.

“Please convince her to get a tattoo,” she begs Grantaire in a whisper, holding onto both his hands. “ _Please,_ R.”

“Why?” he mumbles back, smiling at her. “So you can see her with her shirt off for an hour? We don’t take too kindly to objectifying here.”

“I _meant_ so I’d have an excuse to talk to her, you dick.”

“Well, I am what I eat, I suppose,” Grantaire mutters, and Floréal snorts into her hand, surprised.

“You’re in a mood,” she says, as others trickle in, yelling greetings. “And a good one, too.”

He shrugs. He hasn’t known how to explain the sudden, ridiculous hope he’s suddenly carrying around with him, so he hasn’t. It’s not a feeling he’s much used to.

He thinks it’s something to do with the fact that he’s never been able to see something beyond drinking himself into death, and now there’s the Amis, and Floréal, and the empty canvases at home seem more like possibility than a mocking reminder that he isn’t painting. He thinks it’s something to do with the idea of a tree blooming on his back.

He tries to think of how to tell her this, but then Enjolras is walking over, and sitting down next to them, and maybe he’s had a lot of practice by now but there’s no way he can stop his brain from short-circuiting a little.

Floréal looks amused. 

“R told us about you,” Enjolras says. “It’s good to meet you.”

“Likewise,” Floréal says, and then grins. “He told me a _lot_ about you.”

Grantaire gives her a look that he knows is nothing short of full-on panic. She bats her eyes innocently.

“He did?” Enjolras says. 

“It had better have been good things,” Courfeyrac calls over to them, and Grantaire snorts.

“Only the best for you,” he calls back, and Courfeyrac toasts him with his caramel latte.

“How’s Combeferre’s tattoo healing?” Floréal asks him, her eyes bright. “R and I had some ideas for his others—”

“Others,” Courfeyrac repeats, his cheeks suddenly rather red. Grantaire smirks into his hand, and Floréal elbows him.

“Yeah, he thinks he wants sleeves,” she says, casually. “He said I should do some sketches for him, is he here?”

“He should be here soon,” Enjolras says, in an offhand sort of way, but when Grantaire looks over at him, he’s also biting back a smirk at the look on Courfeyrac’s face, and. 

Grantaire tries to remember how he used to deal with Enjolras being unbearably attractive. He’s pretty sure it involved alcohol.

He nudges Floréal, instead.

“Got any caramels?”

She gives him a sympathetic look, knowing what the caramels mean, and hands him her purse. “Inside pocket,” she says. 

He takes three, which he hopes will last him the length of the meeting, and pops one in his mouth. 

Enjolras clears his throat and stands up. “We’d better get started,” he says, and Musichetta darts over to take his vacated seat, dropping a kiss on Grantaire’s cheek and offering her hand and a bright smile to Floréal.

Grantaire’s eyes follow Enjolras though, like they always do.

“I see why you wax so poetically now,” Floréal says, conversationally. “How can one man be that pretty?”

“ _Floréal,_ ” Grantaire says. “Remember how I told you we _don’t talk about it?”_

“Yes,” Floréal says. “I’m just choosing to ignore you, because I have no doubt that everyone _knows,_ except him, and the way you’re staring means that won’t last long, either.”

“You’d be surprised,” Chetta says. “This has gone on, what, a year and a half now?”

Grantaire sucks moodily on his caramel and says nothing.

“Stop pouting,” Floréal says. “I still think you should just talk to him—”

“Which is never going to happen,” Grantaire says. “Ever.”

“Miscommunication,” Floréal says haughtily, “is a ridiculous reason to not be with someone you like. Do you _want_ your life to be a romantic comedy?”

“I’d prefer to think of it as one of those indie films that tries to be edgy and artsy, but that turns out to just be a huge mess that everyone thinks is stupid,” Grantaire says. She scowls at him.

“Anyway,” Grantaire says. “We’ve been over this. He, _finally_ , doesn’t actively hate me, I’m not about to fuck that up.”

“R,” she says, in the voice she always uses when she thinks he’s being difficult. He sucks a little harder on the caramel, and tries not to think about how easy it would be to get up and get a drink. Her eyes get more sympathetic, and she squeezes his arm. 

“Look,” she says. “No one could hate you if they tried. You’re sweet, and clever, and you have lovely dimples.”

“You say the sweetest things,” Grantaire tells her, and puts his chin on his hands, turning his attention to the meeting. Floréal’s hand strays into his hair, running her fingers through his curls. He knows it’s a nervous habit, knows despite her outward relaxation she _is_ a little nervous to be here at this meeting, so he lets her do it. 

By the time the meeting is over, Floréal’s hand has left Grantaire’s hair, and she’s contributed in a discussion with Enjolras about the safety of trans kids at schools and workplaces, and Grantaire feels oddly proud, like a father watching his beautiful and talented daughter leave the nest. Or something. He writes a note to Jehan asking for the right metaphor, but Jehan just snorts, crumples the paper into a ball, and chucks it at his head. 

(This leads to a small snowball fight, with paper from their notebooks. Enjolras glares at them. Musichetta throws a snowball at _his_ head, in retaliation, and Jehan’s shoulders shake with the effort of concealing their laughter. Enjolras looks at the ceiling, like he’s counting to ten, and Grantaire appreciates it; it gives him a moment to admire the curve of his neck.)

“It’s over already?” Floréal looks disappointed. Grantaire doesn’t sympathize, exactly, as he’s never really disappointed when the meeting itself is over; just when his excuse to stare at Enjolras for thirty minutes is over. “Do we . . . do we just go?” She looks fired up, all full of energy. Grantaire thinks he’s lost another friend to hopeless idealism, but he doesn’t mind much. All his friends are already hopeless idealists, anyway, besides Éponine.

“Come get pizza with me?” Grantaire offers, when Floréal continues to look around, restless, like she wants to be out moving mountains. “I don’t have any food left in my apartment.”

“Do you think I have the money to order pizza every day?” She raises her eyebrows. “Or the spare time? I run my own _business,_ R.”

“I bet you would come for _Éponine,_ ” Grantaire complains, and she pauses for a second before winking at him.

“Ideally, yes,” she says, “I would be coming for Éponine right at this moment if I could.”

Grantaire groans. “ _Flo._ ” 

She grins. “Invite someone else. I really do have to work.” She drops a kiss on his cheek. “And go do some grocery shopping. And get to bed by eleven—”

“Yes, _mother,_ ” he snorts, and she laughs. 

“Are you sassing me, young man?” Her eyes are bright, and she looks very, very happy, and he realizes how good it has been for her to come here, to spend the night with a dozen people who didn’t mess up her pronouns once. 

“Are you coming back next week?” he asks, and she smiles, reaching out to ruffle his hair.

“You know,” she says, “I think I will.” Her face gets a little more serious. “And your appointment is Saturday afternoon, _don’t_ forget.”

“Appointment?” It’s Courfeyrac, seemingly out of nowhere. “Are you getting _another_ tattoo? It’s like a plague, Cosette and Éponine are talking about it now.” Floréal squeaks a little when she hears the name _Éponine,_ and Grantaire bats his eyes at her, to get her back for before. She shoves him, scowling and blushing.

“I already told you the other day,” Grantaire says. “I’m getting that tree on my back, remember?” 

“You should get someone to drive you home,” Floréal says. “Your back is going to hurt pretty bad afterwards.”

“I’ll do it,” Courfeyrac says. “Although I might wait outside with the car to avoid catching the tattoo bug.” He’s smiling, though, a small crooked thing, and so Grantaire just grins back.

“Sounds good. See you Saturday?”

“Text me the address, and I’ll be there,” Courfeyrac promises, and walks back to Enjolras and Combeferre with a spring in his step.

(Looking back, Grantaire thinks he should have known that Courfeyrac was up to something. He’d been alternating between looking longingly at Combeferre’s arms and holding a serious discussion about campus safety for the entire meeting; nothing could have cheered him up that quickly besides A Plan.)

Enjolras receives a text from Courfeyrac at exactly three in the afternoon on Saturday, just as he’s about to finally bring the books back to the library. (He’d meant to do it yesterday, but then he’d opened one of them, and he’d ended up reading the whole thing again.)

**_from: Courf_ **

**_> so i need a favor_ **

**_> you know how r has his appointment at flos today_ **

**_to: Courf_ **

**_> No?_ **

**_from: Courf_ **

**_> well now u know_ **

**_> listen i was supposed to pick him up bc hes not supposed to drive or whatever but i forgot that me and cosette have a thing?_ **

**_> can you get him_ **

**_> please enjolras u will get to see him with his shirt of probably its a win/win_ **

Enjolras looked despairingly at the books, and ran a hand over his face.

**_to: Courf_ **

**_> Why are you asking me, of all people?_ **

**_from: Courf_ **

**_> its a saturday afternoon i figured u were the only person who wouldnt have plans_ **

**_> come ooooonnnnnnn_ **

**_to: Courf_ **

**_> Fine. But you owe me._ **

**_from: Courf_ **

**_> LISTEN im giving u a free ticket to the shirtless r show if thats not paying u back i dont know what is_ **

**_> but THANK YOU I LOVE YOU <3333333333333_ **

Enjolras sighed and left the books on the shelf.

He could bring them back some other time.

When he gets to the shop, he walks in to find it empty except for Grantaire and Floréal, and silent except for the classical music playing in the background. Grantaire is lying on his stomach on a table, his foot moving to the distant beat of the music, his chin on his hands, wincing and biting his lip once in a while. Floréal is working on his back, her long hair pulled into a bun on top of her head, humming along to the music absentmindedly.

The tattoo itself is in its beginning stages, but that doesn’t stop Enjolras from staring; she’s outlined a good deal of it, and it’s the image of a tree sprouting from Grantaire’s spine, like it’s growing out of his body. His lower back has been given the detailed outline of his actual spine, and the tree stretches out from there, reaching. (It reminds Enjolras of Combeferre’s arm; there’s something slightly ethereal about it, something that looks like it could move.)

“Hi,” Floréal says, shocking him out of his staring. He feels his cheeks go red as he looks up at her.

“Courf couldn’t come, he sent me—I’m sorry,” he says, and she interrupts his babbling with a smile that’s a little more smug than maybe it should be.

“Not a problem. Maybe you can entertain him, he keeps asking me stupid questions.” Her voice is full of affection, thought, and she reaches out and ruffles Grantaire’s hair with her free hand. He grumbles and shoves her off, finally turning his head to look at Enjolras.

“Hello,” he says. 

“Hi,” Enjolras says, and shifts from one foot to the other, feeling stupidly nervous. He doesn’t usually have trouble talking to people, or even talking to Grantaire, except that usually, Grantaire has a shirt on, he doesn’t have messy hair and bitten lips. 

“Have a seat, then,” Floréal says briskly, then addresses Grantaire. “I’ve got one bit left to do, the one near the spine you told me to hold off on ’til last.”

Grantaire groans. “The one that’s going to hurt?”

“Don’t be a baby,” she says. “Won’t be more than two minutes.”

“Just get me a goddamn caramel,” he says. 

“You know, when I offered them, I didn’t mean for you to eat them _all,”_ she scolds, and Enjolras realizes he’s still standing and hastily moves to sit down. 

“Listen,” Grantaire says, sticking the offered caramel in his mouth and chewing noisily. “If it distracts me, I’m gonna eat a thousand caramels, and you’re not gonna stop me, because it’s better than whiskey.” He suddenly goes a bit red in the ears, shooting a look at Enjolras. “Anyway. I was trying to ask Flo, but she wouldn’t answer; do you think the coffee shop three streets down is haunted?”

“I don’t believe in ghosts,” Enjolras says. Grantaire gapes at him for a few very long seconds, then closes his mouth with a click.

“Holy shit,” he says. “Have we just found something that I believe in, and you don’t? How can you believe in the rights of the people but not in _ghosts?_ How the turntables.”

Enjolras rolls his eyes. “There is no genuine evidence that ghosts exist, and isn’t it better to believe in something _real_ instead of such an abstract idea—”

“I dunno, the _rights of the people_ seems pretty abstract to me,” Grantaire smirks, and Enjolras sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“You’re ridiculous. What would it matter if ghosts exist or not? There are more important things people can do with their time.”

Grantaire lets his head thunk down onto the table. “Yeah, well—fuck. Ow. That _hurts_ , Flo.”

She runs her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck. “Almost done.”

“Are you okay?” Enjolras asks, concerned, but not really sure what to do; he isn’t like Courfeyrac or Joly or Jehan, he can’t just reach out for people, it’s never been something he’s good at. Grantaire gives him a weak smile.

“I will be,” he says. “Anyway. Do you at least believe in aliens?”

“Aliens are a separate issue,” Enjolras says. “It would be _ridiculously_ self centered to believe that human beings are the _only_ intelligent life in the universe, so the probability of aliens is almost a hundred percent, but ghosts—” Grantaire is still smiling at him, shaking his head in a way that’s almost _fond,_ and Enjolras realizes that somewhere between arguing about ghosts and now that he’s forgotten to be nervous, falling into the same pattern he always does when he and Grantaire end up talking at meetings, arguing more for the sake of it than anything else. “Ghosts are just—unlikely.”

Grantaire hisses, suddenly, and Enjolras sneaks another look at his back. “She’s almost done,” he says. Floréal doesn’t even appear to hear them, anymore—she’s completely in the zone.

“God, I hope so,” Grantaire mutters. Enjolras squints at him. 

“Why did you get a tattoo, if they hurt so much?”

“Because it’s art for your body,” Grantaire answers, forehead pressed into the table. “And it’s—” His fingers reach out to brush along the line of the heart monitor on his wrist. “It’s a way to make a promise.”

Enjolras stays quiet for a moment, watching him. “Are they all promises?”

His voice is much softer than he means it to be. Grantaire looks up at him in what could be surprise, and could be fear, and could be wonder; Enjolras doesn’t know which one it is.

“Can’t tell you that,” Grantaire says, finally. “I have to keep some secrets.”

“Done,” Floréal murmurs, pushing a strand of hair off her forehead. “Don’t sit up yet, R.”

“That was more than two minutes,” Grantaire complains, but stays still, watching Enjolras idly. Enjolras watches him back, and after a second, Grantaire grins.

“So what did Courf bribe you with to get you to come and pick me up?” he asks, and Enjolras feels his neck go red and tries hard not to think about Courfeyrac texting him _tickets to the shirtless R show._ That’s not. That’s not why he came.

“Nothing!” he says, too quickly. Grantaire laughs, and he sees Floréal hiding a smile, and he presses his face into his hands. 

“Okay,” Floréal says. “Get Joly to help you with the bandage later, I don’t trust you, don’t take the bandage off for _at least_ a few hours but _don’t_ leave it on overnight, you know the drill by now, yeah?” Grantaire nods, and pushes himself off the table with his arms, like he’s doing a pushup, and the muscles in his shoulders—Enjolras coughs and looks away. 

“I’ll be fine,” Grantaire says, and drops a kiss on her cheek. “Thanks, Flo, you’re an angel. This is going to look amazing.” 

“Of course it is,” she says, but she’s smiling, pleased. “I drew it, didn’t I?”

Flo waves them off from the door of the shop, and Grantaire finds himself sitting at an awkward angle, leaning forward a little so his back isn’t too firmly pressed against the seat in Enjolras’s car (which Grantaire thinks is actually a joint car owned by Courfeyrac, Combeferre, and Enjolras all together, much like Musichetta and Joly and Bossuet’s jointly owned VW Bug). 

“So,” he says. 

“You live with Joly and Bossuet and Chetta,” Enjolras says, staring at him expectantly. “Right?”

“Not anymore?” Grantaire says. “I mean, we’re having movie night tonight, but that’s at my place, so you should bring me there.”

“I didn’t know you had your own place,” Enjolras says, looking at him funny. He shrugs.

“I love them and all, four’s just a crowd sometimes.”

“I see,” Enjolras says, and turns on the car. 

They drive in silence for a minute, and then Grantaire decides to break the silence in the only way he knows how. “Wait, but if ghosts aren’t real, how do you explain the laundry place on your block?”

(He knows about that laundry place from Courfeyrac, who is always going on and on about the haunted machine that stole his quarters.)

Enjolras laughs, and Grantaire grins ridiculously at his palms at the sound of it. He’s never gotten over making him laugh—of all the things he usually manages to provoke in Enjolras, laughter is the least likely of all of them.

The ride goes quickly, after that, the two of them arguing about ghosts, and when Enjolras drops him off at the front door of his apartment, Grantaire has a huge smile that just won’t seem to fade.

-

He checks his phone later to find about five texts from Courfeyrac, all of which have something to do with how good Combeferre looks and how Courfeyrac wants to— _right,_ Enjolras thinks, and hastily deletes them all. He doesn’t need to read that. 

But Courfeyrac is known to get worried if his texts aren’t responded to in some way, so he types something up hastily.

**_to: Courf_ **

**_> You don’t have to worry about picking him up anymore. I’m going to do it._ **

He volunteers, not specifically because he wants to hang out with Grantaire more, but also because he’s suddenly beginning to realize the possible ramifications of letting Courfeyrac alone with Grantaire, because it’s likely that Courfeyrac has some sort of mad plan to get them together, which Enjolras doesn’t want to subject _anyone_ to, much less Grantaire. Courfeyrac is very good at planning protests, and absolutely awful at romantic interventions, even though he considers himself excellent at it.

As Enjolras is considering this, he gets a response.

**_from: Courf_ **

**_> :D :D :D_ **

**_> doth mine ears deceive me??_ **

**_> i cant believe ur finally taking initiative and having dates with r_ **

**_> im proud of you!! _ **

**_to: Courf_ **

**_> That’s ridiculous._ **

**_> It’s not a date. I’m just driving him home._ **

**_from: Courf_ **

**_> (; (; (;_ **

**_> keep telling urself that!!_ **

By the time of the next meeting, Cosette has a tiny outline of a heart on her wrist— _it’s for Papa,_ she says—and Éponine has the beginnings of delicate patterns mixed with roses running down her left arm, and Combeferre sits next to Floréal and her sketchbook for the first five minutes, talking about the plans for his other arm. Enjolras sits down next to Grantaire, and shakes his head.

“Look what you’ve started,” he says, and Grantaire grins at him, stretched out in his chair, arms behind his head.

“A tattoo revolution,” he says, and Enjolras grins back.

“You’re getting the idea. I thought this day would never come.”

“Ah, but it won’t be a true revolution,” Grantaire says, pointing at him, his chair tipped back onto two legs, “until you’ve got one, fearless leader.” 

“Don’t call me that, this is a democracy,” Enjolras says. Grantaire snorts, to show how much he believes that.

“Seriously, though. It doesn’t hurt that bad, to get one.” 

“What would I get?” Enjolras wonders, and Grantaire grins.

“Liberté, égalité, fraternité,” he says. “On your wrist—no, on your back—no, on your _knuckles—”_

_“_ You’re funny,” Enjolras says, dryly.

“I know.” Grantaire tips his chair back again, and grins. “Maybe the entirety of the national anthem, all over your back?”

“I’m leaving now,” Enjolras tells him, trying and failing to look like he isn’t amused. Grantaire gasps, mock-horrified. 

“But I haven’t even told you the best ones yet!” 

“You’ll live,” Enjolras says. 

Grantaire is regaling Enjolras with tales of Floréal’s most hilarious customers when she pokes him in the arm.

“You’re giggling, and it’s making you squirm,” she tells him. “Unless you want a fucked up back, stay _still._ ”

“Ugh,” Grantaire groans, and sneaks a look back at Enjolras, who his stifling his laughter into the palm of his hand. 

If you’d asked Grantaire before, even just a week ago, if Enjolras would find a story about a man coming into a tattoo shop drunk and asking for Pac-Man on his ass _funny,_ he would have said no. Actually, he would have said something along the lines of “ _are you fucking serious? Of course not,”_ or “ _he’d think it was stupid,”_ except that here they are, today, and Enjolras is snickering his ass off like a ten-year-old kid, and he clearly _doesn’t_ think it’s stupid.

Which is, you know. Kind of cool.

Enjolras’s phone rings, and he picks it up, still giggling. “Courf?”

“Put it on speaker,” Grantaire says, in a stage whisper.

Enjolras, to his surprise, does it.

“Hi Courf!” Floréal chirps, waving at the phone, as if he can see her. Grantaire laughs again. Which sets Enjolras off, too.

“What happened?” Courfeyrac says, sounding indignant. “Never mind, I’m in traffic, I just wanted to tell you I’m gonna be late home and so you and Ferre are going to have to fend for yourselves—”

“What, _no,”_ Enjolras says. “You said you’d make dinner.” 

“You and Ferre lived of Ramen noodles and pure faith for two years before you met me,” Courfeyrac says, dryly. “You’ll be fine.” 

Grantaire stuffs a fist in his mouth to keep from laughing aloud at the purely _betrayed_ expression on Enjolras’s face. This, however, only causes his body to shake, and Floréal to let out a slightly amused sigh.

“Okay,” Floréal says. “I can’t do this when you’re laughing.”

(She sounds like she’s laughing, too, though; so it’s all good.)

“You’re laughing at me,” Enjolras says, frowning, and Grantaire tries his hardest to stop, but just explodes with more laughter, the more he tries. Enjolras’s frown fades, until he almost looks fond, slumped in his chair and watching Grantaire with an amused smile on his face.

“Enjolras,” Courfeyrac says, from the phone, and Enjolras clears his throat and goes back to the call, that same little smile on his face the whole time, and Grantaire feels—well, goddamn hopeful, all over again.

“Ugh,” Grantaire mutters, when they get into the car, and Enjolras shoots him a look.

“Are you okay? Does it hurt?”

“No,” Grantaire says, and shakes his head. “I just forgot about lunch. I was so excited to see Flo, she’s been getting more business lately so we haven’t been able to hang out.” 

“Oh,” Enjolras says, and falls silent. 

It takes a few minutes for Grantaire to notice that they are not going to his house. (He probably should have noticed sooner, but he is hungry and tired, and the sun is just beginning to set over the tops of the buildings, and the fading light looked excellent, especially when it was illuminating Enjolras’s profile.)

“This isn’t the way to my house,” he says, and Enjolras rolls his eyes.

“We’re getting takeout,” he says. “I haven’t eaten either.”

Grantaire considers this.

“That sounds good,” he says, finally. “I was just planning on watching the Breakfast Club, so takeout is a welcome addition.”

“I’ve never seen that,” Enjolras says, in what is presumably meant as an offhand comment, only it backfires, because it just makes Grantaire gape at him for a full minute.

“That hurts,” he says, and Enjolras shoots him a surprised look. “No, okay, listen. You’re watching it with me.” 

“What?” 

“You can’t be twenty—how old are you? Twenty-three?—twenty-three, and not have seen the Breakfast Club,” Grantaire says. “It’s not right. It’s a cult classic.”

“You want me to watch a movie with you?”

“That was my implication, yes,” Grantaire says, and suddenly realizes how nervous he is, at the idea of Enjolras saying no.

“That sounds good,” Enjolras tells him, and Grantaire grins at his feet for the rest of the ride.

“Are you crying?” Enjolras whispers, and Grantaire hits him with a pillow.

“Shhh,” he hisses, eyes fixed on the laptop screen. “This is the best part.” 

“You’ve said that about every part,” Enjolras says, but shuts up until the credits roll. “Why does that bit make you cry? It was a hopeful ending.”

“No it _wasn’t,”_ Grantaire protests. “They’re never going to talk again. They said as much earlier on.”

“She gave him her earring.”

“That doesn’t mean shit,” Grantaire says. “It’s sad because nothing’s gonna change. Everything’s just gonna go back to how it was.”

Enjolras is perched on a beanbag chair, which is surprisingly comfortable, and Grantaire’s lying on his stomach, on his bed, chin propped in his hands. His hair is a mess, and his eyes are wet, but they’re animated, too, gleaming as he explains the sadness in the movie. 

“I still think they’ll meet up again, though,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire snorts a laugh. His face changes when he laughs, every time he does it; Grantaire’s features are messy, in the smallest ways, a big nose and wide-set eyes and a wide mouth, an almost permanent five-o-clock shadow. But when he laughs, it comes together, becomes something wild and beautiful. When he laughs, the air feels charged somehow, and Enjolras aches to lean over and catch his hand, or kiss him, or something—it’s like the feeling of a rally, with the air burning, everyone screaming as one voice, except it’s not a crowd. It’s just the two of them.

“You’re even an idealist with movies,” Grantaire says, but it’s fond, and Enjolras just ducks his head and smiles, the feeling fading to the dull background noise that it is usually. “I’ve got to show you something really fucked up. Donnie Darko, maybe.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” Enjolras says, wryly, and stands, stretching his arms above his head. “I’ll see you at the meeting tomorrow, R.” 

“Yeah,” Grantaire says, from his bed. “See you.”

He watches as Enjolras leaves, a faint smile on his face, and there’s a warmth in the pit of Enjolras’s stomach that won’t seem to fade.

(After that, things are more comfortable. That’s what Enjolras would call it, if he had to pick a word. Nothing has changed specifically between them, except that everything has. Except that when they fight at the next day’s meeting, it’s kindly, with smiles on their faces, not using their words to hurt each other, but to build each other’s arguments up.

Enjolras had long ago realized that many of his arguments would be weaker and fallible without Grantaire’s cynicism, but he thinks he’s now coming to realize the _he_ is better under the influence of Grantaire, too; or maybe he knew that already, knew that this whole time, and he's just now admitting it.)

Grantaire’s last appointment is on a Friday, and when he tells Enjolras, his face falls.

“I have class,” he says, apologetically. “I can’t—”

“No, no, I get it,” Grantaire says, backing up. “It’s cool. Maybe Flo can drive me, or—something, I dunno. Thanks anyway.”

“R,” Enjolras says, catching his arm. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah,” Grantaire says, and suddenly feels a little better, a little less _it was never going to work out anyway._ “I get it. Don’t worry.” 

He escapes back to his corner, next to Floréal and Joly and Bossuet and Chetta and Éponine, and tries not to worry himself.

And he _does_ get it, it shouldn’t be such a big deal, except that was the whole _basis,_ wasn’t it? The whole reason they’re something like friends now—watching movies and shit—all that was because of the rides after his appointments. And that’s over now, so does that mean all this is over, too? (As much as he wants it to keep on going, that hope from the other night has twisted a bit, left him reaching out for what feels like nothing.)

Except it wasn’t nothing, he thinks, it was something; and that’s what’s going to make it worse, if this whole—if this _thing_ they do, this watching-movies thing, this hanging-out thing, this fighting-without-meaning-it thing, if that thing ends. 

He’ll miss it, he thinks. He’ll really fucking miss it. 

The final bit of tattooing is the buds, on the branch that runs over his collarbone.

It’s a beautiful thing, when Floréal’s finally finished—the branches spread over his back delicately, the ones on his neck little more than shadows, undefined almost, especially with his hair in the way. And then there’s the buds, that stand out stark against the rest of the tattoo, forcing your eye to come to them, and Grantaire thinks they’re going to end up like a promise, too; maybe you can be hopeful, maybe you can do something other than drift.

Floréal looks proud as hell, when she’s finished with it, and that’s enough for him.

(He goes to Joly’s, and sits on a chair in the kitchen to watch Chetta make dinner, because his apartment is too quiet, and he sleeps on their couch and wakes up to Bossuet’s cat on his stomach, and it’s good, but there’s something missing that he refuses to let himself think about.)

When Grantaire gets home from Joly’s, the next morning, Enjolras is sitting next to his front door, scowling alternately at his laptop and a book as he writes an essay.

“What,” Grantaire says, weakly.

“Hello,” Enjolras says, almost absentmindedly, like this is normal, like this happens all the time. “I came over because i was hoping to make up for missing yesterday, but you weren’t here, so I sat down to wait.” He says all this without looking up from his computer, and Grantaire blinks and tries to process.

“How long have you been here?” he asks, because it seems like a reasonable question.

Enjolras makes a face, and finally looks up from his laptop. “Fifteen minutes? Maybe? Not very long.” 

“Oh,” Grantaire says.

“Yes,” Enjolras agrees. “Can I come in?”

“You might as well,” Grantaire says, and unlocks the door.

It hadn’t felt awkward in the hall—something to do with how he’d been more than half-focused on his paper, Enjolras thinks—but it feels stifled now, in the apartment. Grantaire dumps a bag on the couch and stretches, and Enjolras his eyes are drawn to the branch that stretches out over his collarbone, barely visible under his t-shirt. He can’t stop looking, and he aches to see the rest, trace his fingers over the whole thing.

He tries to shake himself out of it, but it just fades to the background; not nearly far enough. It doesn’t help that Grantaire looks rumpled, like someone’s been running their fingers through his hair, and Enjolras’s own fingers clench into a fist, wanting to reach out and do it himself—

“So why’d you come over, exactly?” Grantaire asks, and Enjolras snaps a little further out of it. 

“I felt bad about yesterday,” he says, which is the truth. “I like hanging out with you.” He leaves out the _and I really, really wanted to see how your tattoo came out_ because he feels like it would sound—not even _near_ appropriate. 

Grantaire stares at him, eyes slightly narrowed, like he’s trying to find a lie.

“You do,” he says, and it’s not a question, but it drips with disbelief.

“Is that so unbelievable?” Enjolras asks, and he wonders if he’s somehow been acting like he didn’t want to be here this whole time, without noticing. 

“Sort of,” Grantaire says. “Are you sure this isn’t just because your two best friends are out for lunch or something and you need some pity hanging-out?”

“Is that what you think this was?” Enjolras scrubs a hand through his hair. “R, that’s not—I like you. I came here because I had fun the other night, and you said something about another movie, and—” He cuts himself off, and sighs. “I can go. I’m sorry.” 

“No,” Grantaire says, “don’t,” and he reaches out for Enjolras’s arm, and turns them back towards each other; the moment stretches out, too long, almost. Grantaire is biting his lip, looking nervous. Grantaire is biting his lip, and his hair is still mussed, and it feels like gravity when Enjolras leans over and kisses him, because he doesn’t think he could _not,_ in a moment like this; because he doesn’t know how to explain in words why he’s here, why he wants to keep coming back.

Grantaire’s mouth opens in a gasp underneath Enjolras’s and he lets go of Enjolras’s arm like he’s been burned, only to reach up to slide one hand to cup the back of his neck. His mouth is warm, moving with Enjolras’s easily, like there is nothing he would rather be doing, nothing he would be better at. Enjolras slides a hand into his hair, like he’s been aching to do this whole time.

They pull apart and stare at each other for a moment, and Grantaire almost looks scared.

“I—” Enjolras says, then cuts himself off again. “Was that okay?”

Grantaire makes a wounded noise and pulls him back.

 

Enjolras kisses like summer, like every golden thing Grantaire has ever known, like what hope used to feel like in his stomach and his heartbeat and against his mouth. It's like sunshine meeting ice; Grantaire feels like he's thawing.  _  
_

He can scarcely believe it's happening. This is more than he ever dared hope for. 

Enjolras's fingers skirt across the buds and branches that cover his collarbone and Grantaire lets out a strangled half-moan, tightening his fingers into Enjolras's tee shirt, pulling him closer. Thawing, burning; there's no difference anymore, no way to make sense of it in his head besides this one single fact of the universe, a new constant, a new Newton's law. Screw gravity. Enjolras is kissing him, leaned in to kiss him, wanted to kiss him, and his mouth is warm and tastes like coffee and caramel and  _Christ,_ Grantaire could easily melt this way.

"You mean this," he says, manages to get it out through the tangled mess of everything he's thinking, embarrassing things; things like  _you make me believe in things_ and _I'_ _ve thought about this so many times_ and _I love you I love you I love you._

_"Everything,"_ Enjolras says, in a whisper-gasp against his mouth. "Everything, R."

" _Fuck,_ " Grantaire says, with feeling, and closes the distance again.

Later, they’re on the couch, Enjolras on Grantaire’s lap, Grantaire’s mouth on Enjolras’s neck; and Enjolras picks up his wrist and looks at it, at the line inked there.

“I got it after a month sober,” Grantaire says, softly, pulling back. “First Flo had drawn it, but I just—I kept thinking about the hospital, when I went there in the first couple days and everyone thought I was gonna—” He looks away, and clears his throat. 

“But you didn't,” Enjolras says, quietly. “You’re here, now.” 

He remembers that first couple weeks more clearly than he likes to admit; the stark absence of Grantaire from meetings, the feeling in his gut when Joly showed up red-eyed and said _R's in the hospital, he went cold turkey, the fucking idiot,_ Joly who never swore, Joly who always found ways to smile. The way everything felt forced and stupid as they waited for news; the way Grantaire's hands shook when he finally did come back, how his arguments were half-formed and clumsy, how he left with bitterness etched into the line of his shoulders. 

“It’s a promise, like I said,” Grantaire says. “I’m not going back.”

“And the tree?”

Grantaire’s fingers reach up to trace the branch of the tree that’s blooming on his collarbone, smiling to himself. “As out of character as it must seem,” he says, “the tree means—well. I haven’t been very hopeful in a very long time, and now I just—”

He doesn’t finish, but Enjolras reaches out to trace the lines of the branch, too, and he thinks he understands. Grantaire’s eyes are soft, and Enjolras thinks maybe they’re both promises, in different ways; the best kind, the kind that’s permanent, the kind you can’t break.

“What about the Latin on your ribs?” he asks, and Grantaire laughs, and his face comes together, wild and beautiful in the way Enjolras loves.

“That one’s a fucking joke,” he says, eyes twinkling. “Translates to _always where under where._ Nonsense phrase, but when you say it out loud—”

“ _Oh_ ,” Enjolras says, and finds himself grinning, and Grantaire laughs again, and Enjolras smiles, and everything just feels—warm, and hopeful, and _good._ So Enjolras kisses him again, Grantaire’s hands coming up to rest in his hair, and Enjolras hopes this is going to be a promise, too.

(They do end up watching the movie. Eventually.)

 

**Author's Note:**

> okay, so, i do have some reference pics for the tattoos. 
> 
> grantaire has his [tree tattoo,](http://www.coupletattoo.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/11/imaginative-tree-tattoos-tumblr.jpg) which i imagined pretty much exactly like that [or like this](https://i.warosu.org/data/fa/img/0092/25/1419064967696.jpg). he also has the [heart monitor on his wrist,](http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_ly9p6eGL981qc5cafo1_500.jpg) which was very simple and a lot like that. 
> 
> combeferre has [this one of the planets](http://media-cache-ec0.pinimg.com/736x/4c/fe/8b/4cfe8ba01d1a2993c5e4c9c38ba1164f.jpg) and will probably be getting more and more. 
> 
> cosette just has a [very small heart,](http://www.tattoostime.com/images/385/heart-tattoo-on-right-wrist.jpg) and eponine has [this one, which is AMAZING,](http://40.media.tumblr.com/303a60c5fa84ea7772ffa792e3a6891c/tumblr_mmcili7AGD1rltj6ho1_400.jpg) and floreal has [roses like this on her shoulders.](http://40.media.tumblr.com/2874edab81862460c510c90321ce9614/tumblr_myp0bscBQm1r0rzfqo1_400.jpg)
> 
> also, since kylie is a courferre stan, i'm probably writing a courferre sequel to this. (i say that like i am not, myself, a courferre stan.)
> 
> and finally, this is my first les mis fic? ever? so if there's anything i messed up on, or anything that seems ooc, let me know and i'll try to do better next time. :)
> 
> EDIT: this fic now has more art from the wonderful fantastic cam! [here it is!](https://twitter.com/jehantxt/status/614603126184787968/photo/1)


End file.
